Hmmmm. The vet called with Lizzie’s blood test results. ‘It’s not liver failure.
She might just have had a virus.’
‘Then why did you make me worry, telling me it was liver failure?’
‘Well, the weight loss was dramatic.’
While I’m relieved Lizzie is not at death’s door, I still don’t understand why she is suddenly so thin, when she has always been so fat.
Perhaps the grass here is of a much poorer quality: in Somerset, it was fluorescent.
So now she is on a higher calorie feed, with added linseed, organic carrots and apples, and a purple supplement to help her iron levels.
I bought five huge round bales of hay, which I’d been promised were ‘organic meadow hay’, only to find when they arrived they were all mouldy.
I phoned the farmer’s wife and complained. She said if I didn’t pay up, she would come to my house and beat me up and set fire to the hay.
So now I am buying small bales of wrapped haylage at £7 a time.
The horses eat four a day. I still have 4,000 bales of my own hay back in Somerset that won’t sell, and is too expensive to move here.
Lizzie is lame again, and neither the trimmer nor the vet can get to us because I’m now snowed in.
Sainsbury’s was meant to deliver dog and cat food this morning, but phoned to say ‘due to adverse weather conditions’ it has cancelled my order: the dogs have had omelettes. I have no heating, as the gas delivery people won’t deliver.
Mini is the only dog in the world who can return from a walk in foot-deep powdery snow and still be muddy.
I haven’t told you about last Wednesday. I got to London, and had Botox, filler and IPL. I was waxed, dyed and threaded. My feet were pummelled, pumiced and polished.
I couldn’t decide what to wear. When you don’t work in an office, you can pretty much wear the same thing each time you turn up to interview someone.
But the RS has seen all my clothes. He even once asked me why I always wear the same thing: a black and gold pencil skirt with a white Prada T-shirt.
When I’m about to spend money, I always try to justify it in my head, thus: ‘If I buy a Victoria Beckham dress, from spring/summer 2013, it is really for work, as I will write about the dress and the date.’
As the hour drew near to meet him, I had a glass of wine to calm my nervesIt was the same when I got married. I justified the cost because it was also work: bedrooms for guests alone came to £20,000.
Most days, I run at a loss. It’s the same thing, almost, when it comes to arranging to do something, anything.
Have I asked him on a date to fill column inches, or do I really want to see him?
My nerves where men and dates and social interaction are concerned are so acute, I would far rather stay at home, and watch vicarious romance on Grey’s Anatomy.
Anyway, I didn’t buy any new clothes.
I had a shower, carefully applied my make-up, with liberal use of Tom Ford glittery eyeshadow and a £100 serum to make my eyelashes grow, which I reckon is cheaper than eyelash extensions, and pulled on my skinny jeans, which now won’t even stay up as I’ve grown so thin.
There is no longer a bulge over the waistband, which means even my stress-fat tummy has disappeared due to stress.
I had a glass of wine to calm my nerves. I looked at half my face in the mirror, as I can never stand looking at my whole face, and realised I looked awful: big, staring eyes, jutting breastbone.
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Groucho Marx brows.
Short legs.
No behind.
Hair so over-dyed it’s like tinder: crispy, like a Vesta chow mein.
The hour drew near for me to leave. Lately, I’ve been having panic attacks in bed: I feel I can’t control my eyes.
I’m not sure how to describe it but it’s like being dizzy or shuddering.
I wake every morning at 3am. I have to sleep almost sitting up, as I fear what will happen if I’m flat: I might lose control.
So, at half past six, I texted him. ‘Have to work, sorry. Can I take a rain check?’ I simply did not feel fit to be seen. He has yet to reply.